Standstill and crushed dreams
by Inkfire
Summary: Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott share a moment of abandon. Round Seven of the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge.


**A one-shot for the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge.**

**Round Seven: Daphne/Theodore.**

* * *

"Drinking alone, are you?"

He glared at her. His eyes were darker than in her memory, hot and murderous. She took a seat at the bar, pretending that his gaze was not chilling her.

He had never seemed remotely intimidating before. Quiet, yes, snarky, a bit haughty – weren't they all? But times had changed, and she was no longer running into him in the library or the corner of their common room, but in a small, shabby pub somewhere in the depths of London, some dark alley not far from Diagon but where no responsible parent would ever dream of taking their child, though it was no Knockturn.

"Firewhiskey, please," Daphne Greengrass called to a sullen-looking waiter with a voice of her most imperious, in which she was however trying to lessen the aristocratic drawl. The man quirked an insolent eyebrow at her and she paid with a disdainful look, willing away the blush she could feel heating her cheeks.

"Society girl on the loose, are you?" Theodore wearily whispered, eventually, looking up at her with eyes that had lost their passion too fast. Daphne made a point of taking a long sip before she answered him.

"We are not our parents, Nott," she said simply, setting her glass down, aware that the words meant more to him than to her. "Times are changing."

"That they are," he scoffed, and drained his glass. Daphne rested upon him a new, knowing eye. He was alone, and pathetic, and lost, a little boy trying to be a man. Then again, weren't they all.

"You are not nostalgic, Nott," she said softly. "We haven't much to be nostalgic of. You're just afraid to move on, into the unknown – am I wrong?"

"Don't you think you can analyse me, Greengrass," he snarled. He straightened up all of a sudden, reminding them both that he was tall, towering above her. "You ran from mummy and daddy and their talk of engagements, their eagerness to pretend that nothing has changed at all. You fled in a bar and because you're here with a drink in your hand, you think you're not a little girl anymore and you can tell me what to do like you're so much more mature than I am. You make me _sick_, Daphne."

He seemed to choke on her name, spitting it out like a bitter sob. She felt cold and slightly angry – but mostly cold, a sense of dread rising in her chest.

Perhaps he was right.

"I don't think I'm more mature," she said. "None of us are. Theo, we're children."

He blanched, seizing his empty glass again, knuckles white. "Yes, we are," he murmured. "We've never fought. We've never been through anything."

There was pain in his words, in his gaze, and Daphne looked away. "Do you ever wonder..." she asked sourly, "how it would have been?"

There was a beat of silence. "I don't know," Nott finally said, "not much better for us. We'd... still be top of the world, but I'm not sure I'd want that."

"So maybe we really stood on the wrong side all along," Daphne marvelled. "The side where money and blood are everything. Some people will never know..." she gulped, "how hard it is... to be born superior, and have to remain so, all along. To have no – no freedom."

"Lower your voice. You're not drunk enough yet." Nott gestured to the waiter, who wordlessly brought them two drinks.

"No, I'm not." Daphne seized her glass and raised it. "I'm desperate, and I'm a little girl – and for this world, a pureblooded, cold-blooded bitch. Cheers, Theo." He stiffened at the name, but she did not notice – she had thrown her head back, and drunk. "I never liked you, you know," she added breathlessly.

"I know, I didn't either," he replied. "The best people to get drunk with when you're desperate are those who don't like you, really. Because they're not going to care much about what happens to you afterwards."

"That's wisdom. I really don't care about you, Theo Nott." Daphne leaned towards him. "Now, tell me something about you."

He glanced at her. "Why?"

"I want to hear just how miserable you are," she told him fiercely, "so that I can stop feeling alone. _Tell me something about you_."

He laughed once, and brushed her hand. "Selfish as they come. A true Slytherin." She didn't pull away.

"I am a Death Eater's son," he spoke again, "and I wish I were free."

"You don't wish _he _were free?" Daphne responded on a reflex, stupidly. _Azkaban_. He shook his head.

"He's never been free, he wouldn't know how to be. On second thoughts – I wish I wouldn't feel, so much, that I'm not free."

"That makes sense," Daphne whispered. "Do you think Draco Malfoy is free?"

Nott laughed. "Please. He's never been either. And... I sort of think he'd be too scared, too."

"So should I resent him for his decisions?" Daphne tasted bitterness on her tongue. "He's going to ruin my sister."

"Yeah, I think so, too," Nott said, his tone offhand, conversational. "He loves her."

"You think?"

"Yes. And that's actually the reason why you're right. He'll ruin her because he's ruined, and she loves him too, right?"

Daphne nodded once. He didn't ask how Nott knew. Three quarters of the world seemed to know that Astoria Greengrass loved Draco Malfoy to death.

"I'll screw up the wedding," she vowed as Nott got them more alcohol from the waiter for yet another time. "I'll kill him and take my sister away. I don't care what happens then."

"No you won't," he quietly disagreed, "You'll be a bridesmaid and seethe in silence. You'll be lucky if you're not wearing a ring on your finger by then, even. Don't flatter yourself, Daphne. You don't have the guts."

"Would you?" she wondered aloud, "Would you take your sister away? If you had one?"

"I don't have a clue."

"Would you take _me_ away?"

There was stunned, ringing silence. Daphne swallowed her third drink in a hurry, cheeks hot and stinging, biting her tongue.

"No," Nott said, eventually. "No, Greengrass. I wouldn't take you away."

And Daphne felt a crushing wave of relief that sent her head spinning and reeling. She slammed her glass into the bar. "Thank you," she spoke, hoping her voice sounded firm. She turned her head to gaze directly into his eyes. "Do you think I'm drunk enough?"

He stared right back coolly, evaluating her. "Not quite," he drawled. "But that's by my standards."

"And mine?"

He laughed, and this time the sound was louder, richer, _confident_. It sent shivers down her spine and tingles in her stomach.

"Darling, you're completely wasted. Beyond acting sensible, beyond taking responsibility for whatever you might end up doing."

She set her feet on the floor and stood straight and steady. She felt light-headed, as though she were out of her body, observing herself from a distance. And she saw Daphne Greengrass raise a hand as if to have it kissed, every bit the princess, and Theo Nott stand smoothly and take it in his, ready to lead her away.

"Acting," he said softly, "pretending... is much easier than living, don't you think, Greengrass? Pretending you are strong, pretending you don't need help, or you don't always pick the same patterns to look for it... Same places, same people... How awful if there was more to the two of us than an act, don't you think?"

"I think you talk too much, and too loudly," she said in a whisper. "Don't be so – overdramatic. And don't pretend you don't like to hide, too. The two of us mean nothing."

"Nothing," he echoed.

"Precisely. Now, kiss me."

He did, before they left the bar, arms tangled, cheeks heated, hearts oddly triumphant – if only for a while.


End file.
